Grey Areas
by JeezLouise
Summary: Our intrepid duo post-second movie, pre-row boat scene. What the hell happened during those credits!
1. Chapter 1

SCULLY

"We should be truly thankful for this miracle," he announces to the assembled group, without a hint of joy or humility in his tone. He is refusing to look at me, to even acknowledge my presence. Instead he simply stares directly ahead, head held high as if the dog collar is actually a neck brace, restraining his movement, keeping him on the straight and narrow path to righteousness.

I can only feel guilt: the Catholic in me. Typical. I'd laugh if the whole situation wasn't so very, very depressing. I should be delighted, of course. But I know, deep down, that saving Christian wasn't really about helping a little boy, or pushing the boundaries of medical science, or even simply doing the right thing: it was merely another chapter in my epic power struggle with the hospital administration. And this most hollow of 'victories' breaks my heart.

What have I become? I barely recognise myself any more, sitting in this archaic meeting room, listening to endless medical professionals discussing endless cases. The truth is, given enough time, all patients will simply die: every doctor in history has a 100% mortality rate. To find myself mulling over this statistic on the day of Christian's discharge from my care is disturbing. Perverse, even. But knowing my true motivation for saving him – pride, a deadly sin – I find my colleagues' praise, the grateful family, even this grudging acknowledgement from my arch enemy hard to stomach.

The meeting finally draws to a close and the assembled medics file out. I stand to join them and begin to gather up my things, contemplating how I might get through the remaining seven hours of my shift, when-

'Dr Scully, may I see you in my office?'

It's him. Not now; not today.

'I'm very busy, Father-' I begin to make my excuses; he interrupts me.

'It won't take long, doctor. And it is rather urgent.' The tone of disapproval in his voice is matched by the flash of irritation in his steely eyes.

With a sigh, I give in. We walk in silence down the harshly-lit, foreboding hallway, our out-of-sink footsteps echoing in the empty space . I feel my facial muscles tighten and my heartbeat quicken slightly; anger is welling up beneath my now-faltering professional demeanour. I am ready to do battle.

His office is familiar territory. I have been summoned here on an almost weekly basis since my appointment at Our Lady of Sorrows. The parallels with my career at the Bureau, and the irony of them, do not escape me. Today, however, feels different...final, somehow. The events of the past few months have worn me down. All my illusions of a fulfilling career in medicine have been...not shattered, something less sudden, more like worn away gradually over time.

'Take a seat,' he says, indicating the hard wooden antique chair I've occupied so many times before.

'As I said, Father, I'm busy, so can we get this over with?' I fire the opening shot.

'I appreciate that, doctor, but I'm afraid you won't have anything more to occupy your time at this institution. I called a meeting of the board this morning. As you know, you've been treading a fine line for quite some time now, and with the resignation of Father O'Connor from the board last week, I was finally able to attain the required amount of votes. The board feels that your – practices – do not comply with the strong Catholic ethos of Our Lady of Sorrows. The board are prepared to allow you to continue to hold your post for a further three months whilst you find something else, after which you can resign. However, you will not treat patients; we'll find you something else to do – lab work, research, autopsies...' he trails off, staring at me with the merest hint of a smug, satisfied smile.

'I see,' I reply, a lump forming in my throat but desperate not to betray any hint of emotion. I take a few seconds: breathe in, breathe out. I moisten my lips and I'm ready to continue.

'Well, there's nothing left to say, in that case. You'll have my resignation on your desk by the end of my shift.' My ears can hardly believe the words coming out of my mouth. Inside, a part of me is screaming every expletive under the sun. And yet the overwhelming feeling is one of pure, unadulterated relief: it's all over. As I stand up to leave, I can see the bewilderment on his face: if only he knew that I was as surprised as he is by my reaction.

For the first time in a long time, I hold my head up high as I walk along the hall. I feel somehow like I've clawed back some self-respect, some dignity. I allow myself a slight smile. This bitter chapter of my life is over. Relief courses through my veins like a drug. I am glad to be alive.

I look at the clock: in six and a half hours' time, I'll be out of here and where I belong.

With Mulder.


	2. Chapter 2

MULDER

"And coming up next on Fox, one child, three possible fathers: explosive DNA results as the truth is revealed!"

Oh brother.

I switch off the TV and head to the refrigerator for a soda. The clock reads 6: 34. She'll be finishing soon, then there's the commute: I should maybe start thinking about dinner.

Except I'm struggling to think about anything lately, except that case. The most shocking thing about it was how it didn't shock me at all. Despite several years' hiatus, I slipped back into that role so easily; so readily detached myself, focussing solely on the job at hand. Why can't I slip back into normal life so easily?

I guess my definition of 'normal' isn't quite the same as other people's. After so long spent chasing answers, standing still seems so uncomfortable, unnatural even. After so many brushes with death, after seeing so much horror, everyday life seems to lack any thrill. But equally, it lacks any despair; it is devoid of darkness. The thrill of the chase has been sacrificed at the alter of normality.

We do the everyday: grocery shopping; cleaning the dishes; car maintenance. We choose wallpaper and matching cushion covers. We pay the utility bills and try to find the best broadband provider. We exchange gifts on birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas: regular as clockwork.

Don't get me wrong. I don't resent it. Just sometimes, I find myself thinking about an old case. I fall asleep on the sofa watching an old B movie, and just for those few drowsy, confused seconds, I'm in my old apartment, eager to get to work to get started on the next case. Every so often, I'll be reading an article about some new spy technology and I'll even go so far as to pick up the phone and start dialling the Lone Gunmen...

I start peeling the potatoes. We have a special tool to do it with. We have a draw full of special culinary tools to do all sorts of magical things with. I don't even know what half of them are for. I get through a potato and a half when suddenly, I've sliced my hand. It hurts like a son of a bitch as drops of bright red blood stain the creamy-white potato. Shit. I'll have to start again. I dump the blood-stained potatoes into our special food waste bin and administer a band-aid to my hand.

The clock reads 6.46. If she leaves on time, which is hardly ever, she should be home by eight. I sit back down on the sofa and unthinkingly turn the TV back on.

"YOU RUINED MY LIFE, YOU BLEEPING-WHORE!"

"BLEEP YOU, MOTHER-BLEEPER!"

I smile bitterly at the fact that any of these people are parents.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she cries. And I don't know what to do. Because I know there is nothing in the world that I can do, to make it even one iota better. And that is when my heart breaks all over again.

Suddenly, I hear the unmistakable sound of tyres on gravel: someone is outside. The flash of headlights as the car pulls up confirms it. My heart beats faster in my chest. Instinctively, I drop low and make my way to the kitchen, fumbling in the draws for the gun.

Now, I hear a single set of footsteps crunching along the gravel: they're heading straight for the door. Ducking behind the kitchen counter, I hold my gun in both hands. I have a clear shot at the door. Whoever it is has keys. Shit! How did they get them? The door swings open, and a flash of blue scrubs reveals...

...Scully. My Scully.


	3. Chapter 3

SCULLY

"Mulder, what the hell are you doing?"

I arrive home to discover him kneeling at the kitchen counter and pointing a gun at me. A look of relief sweeps over him and he gets to his feet, quickly slipping the gun back into the drawer.

"You're early," he says, wiping his hands on his jeans and walking over to meet me. I have a large box of all my personal affects from my office, plus a bottle of wine nestling on top. He takes the box and rests it on the counter.

"Are you having a garage sale?" he quips, as he begins rifling through the box.

"Mulder, are you going to point a gun at me any time I come home unexpectedly?" I give him a look of disapproval.

"What can I say? Paranoia is a hard habit to break," he is, as always, self-deprecating in the face of criticism.

He looks up and takes a few seconds to notice me: my demeanour, my outfit (I always take the time to change out of scrubs, but not today), the box – I can almost hear his thought processes. He knows something's not right in this picture. He picks up the bottle of wine and heads towards the doorway, where I'm taking off my scarf, hat and gloves.

"Are we celebrating or commiserating?" he says, carefully. He's still not quite grasped my mood. His instinct is to be light-hearted, but he doesn't want to make things worse if something bad has happened with an inappropriate joke.

"Its...hard to say. I guess it depends how you look at it," I reply mysteriously, although with a half smile that gives him permission to delve deeper. He steps closer and looks me up and down for a few seconds.

"Hmm...well, you're still wearing your scrubs...you want to play doctors and nurses?" he steps closer, into my personal space, but without actually touching me.

"Mulder!" I place a hand lightly on his chest and look up, directly into his eyes.

"Clue number two: a mid-priced bottle of wine. You're trying to get me drunk so you can have your wicked way with me?" He reaches around with his free hand and places it on the small of my back.

"You should be so lucky!" I'm now giggling involuntarily and our lips are separated by mere inches as he pulls me closer.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to tell me, Dr Scully, or I'll have to force it out of you," he leans in for the kiss. As he does, I grab the bottle of wine and twist out of his embrace, heading to the kitchen for a bottle opener and some glasses.

"Well..." I begin, unsure of how to phrase the news. "I've been fired." The words sound strange coming from my lips: harsher, more serious. It suddenly strikes me that I don't have a job any more, and I stop what I'm doing for a second to gage his reaction.

"I...don't understand," he says, the smile vanishing from his face, replaced with a look of confusion.

"He finally got the Board's backing. Something about not fitting in with the Catholic ethos. To hell with it, Mulder. I'm sick of their games, the ridiculous childish battles every day. This is a blessing in disguise. Now what's for dinner?" I don't know why I think I'll get away with changing the subject.

"Really? You really don't...but Scully, you loved that job. And they can't just...you don't have to accept this, there are all sorts of legal channels..."

I interrupt him, annoyed that he won't just drop it. But then, who am I trying to kid? When has Fox Mulder ever just dropped anything?

"Mulder...look. It's over. And to be honest, I'm relieved. That place was turning me into...I don't know, it was having a bad effect on me. And with Christian being discharged today, I just feel like...like it's the right time. Like my work there is complete."

"You don't mean that. After all the progress you've made? How many more Christians are there going to be? Kids who can be saved by pioneering treatments that these idiots won't let happen? You've fought too long, too hard..."

"Just stop, Mulder. It's over. I'm not...I'm not like you. I know when to walk away. I know which battles to pick. It's time for me to move on."

"I see," he replies. I sense the disappointment in his voice. "Whatever makes you happy."

This comment infuriates me. He knows damn well that none of this – this extraordinary existence we've decided to eke out together in the middle of nowhere – makes me happy. I know it's childish, but I decide to punish him with a petty annoyance.

"What would make me happy, Mulder, is if I came home after a twelve hour shift and the breakfast dishes weren't still piled up in the sink! Don't you think you could take five minutes out of your busy schedule of internet porn and daytime TV to rinse a few coffee cups?" I snap, staring at him with wild-eyed fury. I can feel my cheeks burning. As I turn away, stinging tears fill my eyes as I begin to route through the kitchen draws for the bottle opener, making as much noise as possible.

"Yeah right, sure. You're not even remotely bothered about losing your job, but a couple of unwashed dishes are the end of the world all of a sudden?" How dare he? Out of the corner of my eye I can see him moving towards me, but I don't slow down; in fact, my search becomes more frantic – I'm rampaging through each drawer now, revisiting ones I've already been through.

"Where's the damn bottle opener?!" I yell, slamming the final draw shut. As I turn around he's there in front of me and I fall into his arms, sobbing into his chest. We stand like this for a few moments, neither of us speaking. The din of the TV commercials, the gentle thud of his heartbeat under his shirt, the hum of the refrigerator: I'm home.

Eventually, he gently kisses my head and softly says, "So what now?"


	4. Chapter 4

MULDER

"Shh", I say quietly, holding her tight to my chest and kissing the top of her head.

We have this same fight maybe once a week. If it hadn't have been the dishes, it would be the squeaking hinge on the bedroom door, the slight angle that the bathroom cabinet hangs at, or for that matter the still un-peeled potatoes sitting on the kitchen counter.

And I indulge her. We play out these small domestic dramas, as if we've taken all the darkness from our collective past and broken it down into more manageable, single-serving doses of pain, to be dealt with piece by piece in this weekly feud about nothing and everything all wrapped into one easy-to-digest outburst. I guess, in a weird way, it's our way of dealing with it.

And I won't pretend I don't enjoy the make-up sex. "So what now?" I say softly, and her only reply is to kiss me hard on the lips. She doesn't open her eyes; eye contact is a level of intimacy too far for her right now. She only wants to be comforted. I feel the familiar thrill in the pit of my stomach as her fingernails gently reach under my shirt and graze my back. Sometimes I still can't quite believe she's here in my arms.

She wraps her arms around my neck. I know this signal: I lift her up and begin to carry her towards the bedroom – _our _bedroom – when my the cut on my hand suddenly stings and I wince involuntarily. She opens her eyes and doesn't need to say anything – the question is already there, written all over her flushed, tear-stained face – _what's wrong?_

"I cut my hand – it's nothing," I say continuing the journey and leaning back in for a kiss. She wriggles out of my hold and grabs my palm, examining the blood-soaked band-aid before suddenly ripping it off.

"Oww!" I yell, a little too loud for my liking.

"Baby!" she teases, before heading back toward the kitchen for her medical bag.

She returns with iodine and a more substantial dressing.

"It's a scratch!" I protest.

"Even scratches get infected, Mulder" she smiles weakly before getting to work with the iodine, and it's now I notice how tired she looks. Exhausted, in fact. These last few days have really taken their toll on her. Days, weeks, months, years...

"Scully," I say, about to suggest something I'll probably regret.

"Yes, Mulder?" she replies.

"I think we need a vacation..."


	5. Chapter 5

"A vacation?" I ask, half-sighing. "A vacation to where exactly, Mulder?" I am beyond irritated by this ludicrous suggestion.

"I don't know....anywhere," he replies, and I begin to detect that tone of almost perverse excitement he has when faced with a particularly difficult task; the tone that tells me he won't be dropping this idea in a hurry. Great.

I roll my eyes and notice the bottle opener nestling under a dish in the sink. Fishing it out, I turn away from him and retrieve the wine and two glasses before setting about pouring us both a large glass.

"Mulder, I just want to relax for a while. Consider my options. Update my resume, in fact..." I trail off, already well aware that this will not faze him. The runaway juggernaut that is Fox Mulder's sense of enthusiasm will not be halted by my feeble protests. I hand him his glass and we both head towards the sofa.

"You said it, Scully: relax. What better way to relax than with a vacation?" he glares at me intently as he takes a sip from his glass, looking to gauge my reaction, probably already figuring out my next response, and in turn his own counter-argument.

"Mulder, I..." I am surprised and silenced by his finger on my lips.

"Shhh...just listen, Scully. The last few months have been tough, the last few years excruciating, the last decade, utterly impossible...life with me, well, it's no picnic. We both need to let our hair down. But we can't do that here, and you know it. This house, this place...I know it's our home – our first home, together – but there's so much pain here, Scully. So many memories..."

I know what he's talking about. Those first few tentative months, our relationship moving forward but still based on mutual comfort, after William, after the Bureau, after everything that had happened...this house was simultaneously our sanctuary and our prison as we hid ourselves away from everyone and everything in this cold, cruel world: the sense of utter, paralysing despair only broken by our slowly blossoming love.

Of course, our love had always been there, so strong as to be almost – but not quite – tangible. We had long since moved from partners to best friends and confidants, but that last step – becoming lovers – was almost entirely overshadowed by the huge emotional scars that almost tore us apart completely.

I'm not saying I didn't enjoy the sex – far from it – but our motivations were frequently questionable: loneliness; isolation; anger; despair; we sought solace in each other, and our physical relationship seemed to be merely an extension of that; just another form of therapy.

Maybe it still is.

I place my glass on the coffee table and lean onto him, resting my body on his. He wraps his arm around me and gently strokes the small of my back: _his spot _Head resting on his chest, I lean up and kiss him again on the lips, delicately this time, holding his gaze, making a conscious effort to show him that I'm trying to connect with him, the man I love, rather than forget a painful incident.

He breaks the kiss and smiles, gently brushing my hair off my face, never breaking my gaze.

"I'll take that as a yes," he says softly.


End file.
